


I Miss You

by sparkylungs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkylungs/pseuds/sparkylungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John goes through the five stages of grief after losing Sherlock. Hope of Sherlock being alive is renewed when John receives a message on the third anniversary of Sherlock's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soo I'm kinda bad at summaries, but this is basically a post-Reichenbach fic  
> I'm hoping on making this two or three chapters so it might turn into an Mature or Explicit fic later on  
> I hope you guys like it

**1095 days**

Exactly three years. That's how long John sat in his usual chair by the fireplace, thinking of that day. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Sherlock lying lifeless on the ground; eyes wide and covered in his own blood. Not even for a day could he forget his best friend. Although he was finding it increasingly harder to remember every feature of the man. His face was slowly beginning to fade from John's memory. John tried desperately to hold on to every last piece of Sherlock he could remember, but it was all in vain. Every time he tried to picture Sherlock, he was just another figure with slightly recognizable features.

Up until the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, John was convinced everything that happened was a trick. He would text Sherlock at least once a day, never really expecting a response, but having a feeling that Sherlock was there behind the screen. Sometimes the texts were meaningless and other times they were filled with things that John could never say. And even though he neverexpected any response, there was always a tiny hope that Sherlock would be there, reading everything.

_I accidentally made two cups of tea today. What a waste. JW_

_I haven't touched anything in your room yet. JW_

_It really needs to be cleaned out. So much dust. JW_

_I'm thinking about getting a cat. JW_

_I've decided against getting the cat. Too much work. JW_

_It was the first snow of the season today. JW_

_How did you do it? JW_

_Please come back. JW_

_Why didn't you take me with you? JW_

_Is it that you don't want me anymore? JW_

_I'm sorry. JW_

For a whole year, John sat in the empty flat. Being in denial didn't make Sherlock any less dead. As he desperately tried to ignore that fact, he typed away messages to his friend to distract himself. Never once did he get a reply - not that he really expected he would. And that made the first year all the more difficult to endure. There were times when he debated with himself on whether or not to end his life. The only thing that stopped him was the slight, almost impossible, chance that Sherlock might still be out there. It was his denial that kept him alive.

It wasn't until the second year of Sherlock's death that John became angry.

He was angry at Sherlock. Angry that Sherlock left him alone after making him feel so much. Angry that Sherlock had the audacity to think that John would be okay without him there. Angry that Sherlock didn't take John with him when he left. John always knew that he would give ups his life for his friend; Sherlock being the most important person in John's life. He thought that Sherlock knew that John would rather die with him than be left without him. It made him angry that Sherlock didn't want John to be with him anymore.

John's anger made him feel so much more than he ever had. Everything became more palpable and he hated feeling anymore. Everything he felt was magnified and made the heartache worse than it ever was. His emotions got the better of him and he'd find himself snapping at people without any real reason to do so. There was a point when he'd became so angry that he'd yelled at Mrs. Hudson until she was in tears. Realizing too late what he'd done, he spent the rest of the evening apologizing profusely. After that particular outburst, he'd learned to keep to himself, staying in his room, hardly leaving for anything but food or the bathroom.

It was also the second year when John became desperate.

John was desperate with himself to stop feeling. Desperate to make his emotions go away so he could find at least a little peace in his life instead of the pain he felt constantly. He was desperate with Sherlock to come back to him. John began to realize there was no way for Sherlock to still be alive. That tiny hope that John had, vanished, only to be replaced by fear and pain. So he was left feeling desperate. Depsereate for others to fix him. John wasn't a religious man, but he was so desperate that he began begging God for a miracle.

"Please, God, please... I'll never yell at Sherlock again. I'll tolerate him better. I'm sorry, please, just bring him back to me."

This was when John began to blame himself.

"If only I could have been more help."

"If only I had caught Moriarity sooner."

"If only I didn't leave him alone at St. Bart's."

For the rest of the second year of Sherlock's death, these were the only thoughts he had. His mind was stuck dweling on every 'If only.' John's life consisted of only Sherlock, even after his death. He believed that if it weren't for him, Sherlock wouldn't be dead - that he could have prevented what happened on the roof that evening. He spent every day thinking of ways he could have saved Sherlock. Or why Sherlock decided to leave John on his own. Either way, he would always think himself into hazardous state, using sleep to rid himself of the thoughts.

It wasn't until the third year that the depression started.

John faced the war. He saw people dying every day. And yet he was never as affected then as he is now. He had become a shell of his former self. John began to fall apart like never before. Every day he would follow the same routine. He would wake up and sit in his chair by the fireplace; never moving or talking. And though she tried, Mrs. Hudson couldn't get him to touch food. He was becoming breakable. One would feel scared to touch him, fearing that he'd shatter beneath their touch. He looked so fragile. No matter what any of his friends tried to do, John would stubbornly avoid any attempt to help him. He couldn't see what was happening to himself, so he denied them. They'd ask him out for lunch or drinks, but he couldn't bring himself to go. Everything reminded him of Sherlock - even their friends. Only on a few, rare ocassions would he go out. That was only when he was practically forced out of his flat. Even then he pretended he was fine.

But today isn't just any other day. Today is the three year anniversary of Sherlock's death. As expected, John sat still in his chair, the fireplace off, despite the chill in the house. It took John a couple moments to compose himself before he was able to get up and walk out the door. Hailing a cab, he got inside and gave the cabbie instructions and they headed off towards the cemetery. Mrs. Hudson stopped going to the grave after the first anniversary. She couldn't stand the sight of John as he broke down, as she told him. So, since the second year, John went alone. He stayed there for hours by himself. The silence didn't help with the constant thoughts, so he wished he had some sort of distraction, even if it was another person.

Stepping out of the cab, he paid the man and began walking, limping slightly, towards Sherlock's grave. Unfortunately, the limp came back soon after Sherlock's death. John couldn't even bringhimself to try and get rid of it. He wasn't in any sort of condition then. So here he was, limping like Sherock had never before been there fix it. As John approached he could see that the grave was beginning to show signs of age. The letters were starting to fade and plants were beginning to grow around the tombstone from the gravel beneath. It's been far too long since the death of his best friend. Too long for this to be a farce.

John didn't know how long he stood there or how long he planned to stand there. To anyone else, staring at a grave for hours seemed incredulous, but time seemed irrelevant to him now. After a long while of just standing there, trying to control his untamed thoughts, he sagged down against the tombstone. John pulled out his phone and began typing away at his phone. He couldn't stop the tears that fell from his eyes, knowing that what he was about to say would never get a reply.

_I miss you. JW_

After he pressed send, he just stared at the screen for a few more seconds before dropping his phone back into his pocket. Every word that he never said, and never could say, he sent through text. It was easier that way. He covered his face with his right hand, letting himself cry. It was only when he began sobbing that he realized how long it had been since he cried and how much he held in in the past couple years. Even after three years, Sherlock's death wasn't any less real or painful to him. He could still remember every detail of the fall, both physical and mental.

As John sat there crying, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. That was strange, considering no one texts him lately. Cautiously pulling it out of his pocket, John swiped it open to see a new message. Upon opening it, his heart stopped. It was from a number he thought he'd never see again.

_I know._

* * *

After receiving that message, John sent out a string of replies, but he never got another response. In the beginning he thought he was imagining the response. He thought he was going crazy. It was the physical evidence of the message that kept him sane. Every night he would flip open his phone to the text and stare at - he needed to make sure it was real. To John, there was that tiny sliver of hope in his life once again. He wanted so much for that to be Sherlock that replied to him and not some sort of joke from someone else. The fact that his messages still sent to Sherlock's phone was proof that someone was still using that number. His number wasn't out of service so someone was still paying the bill. Someone was still looking at every message on that phone. That alone gave John hope. Although he still had his doubts and his rationale to remind him that Sherlock being alive was impossible.

It only took a couple weeks for John's hope to diminish almost completely. He couldn't take the stress or the pain anymore. Three years was long enough. Today was the last day he was going to try and reach Sherlock - if he was even out there. If Sherlock didn't respond this time, John was going to try and forget everything. He needed to stop this and move on with his life. As much as he didn't want to forget Sherlock, this whole situation was killing him. So John sent a few more texts, hoping that Sherlock might respond again.

_I need to know if you're still alive. JW_

_I promise not to tell anyone if you come back. JW_

_I don't know how much longer I can do this without you. JW_

_I just need to know you're out there. JW_

_Please talk to me. JW_

The day was almost over and John had yet to receive any sort of reply. Though John told himself that he was going to try and forget, he knew he would probably never be able to. He would stop texting him in hopes of a reply, but he'd always remember the most important person in his life. He couldn't say that he was surprised that Sherlock didn't reply. After all, it might not have been Sherlock who responded to him in the first place. Still, that thought did nothing to ease John of the pain he felt.

The incident with the text did nothing to rid him of the constant nightmares, either. Almost every night it was the same nightmare. John would be in his bed, trying to sleep, when he would wake up to see Sherlock standing in his doorway. No matter how much struggling John did, he found that he couldn't move his his body at all and could only reach out to the other man. He was eternally stuck in his bed, forever trying to reach Sherlock, but movement was impossible. The worse part was, Sherlock would stand there and watch, not doing anything to get closer to John. Most nights he had this nightmare. Other nights he would replay the events of the fall and wake up screaming in terror. Or he would dream that Sherlock came back, but left John to lead a better life for himself without John in it. Either way, John never really had any peaceful nights for the past three years.

But this night was different. It had been three weeks since the text from Sherlock's mobile. The nightmares were more prevalent in John's life and waking up in terror or tears wasn't unlikely. This time it was another nightmare of the fall. John was running, trying so hard to reach him before he hit the ground, but missing him by mere seconds. In this nightmare, John was sobbing over Sherlock's still body, crying out for him. Time felt like it stopped and everything around him ceased movement. He felt forever stuck in time, not able to move forward. The pain felt more real than it ever had before and he wished that he could get away and make it stop. John just stared into Sherlock's cold eyes, not being able to move away from his body. He could barely register a voice crying out - his voice - Sherlock's name the only word on his tongue.

Before he knew what was happening, rough hands were gripping his shoulders and shaking him awake. "John," came a harsh whisper. John knew that voice. He'd never before heard it in his dreams, but he would remember that smooth baritone anywhere. He clenched his eyes shut tight, feeling the tears poor out that he didn't even know were there. He must still be dreaming. The pain from recent events must have brought on this strange nightmare, John concluded.

"John, please," the voice pleaded. John's eyes snapped open. Sherlock never pleaded with anyone and hearing that startled John. Now he knew this was just another dream - or nightmare. When he looked up, he saw Sherlock leaning over him, grabbing his shoulders. His face looked worn and tired; more than it ever has before. Unconsciously, John reached out to stroke the side of his face. This action seemed to startle the man above him. The skin was smooth and it felt too real to be a regular dream. John was just taking in the sweet sensation of actually being able to feel him this time, unlike in any other dream. Everything about this dream seemed so real and unreal at the same time.

"You feel so real," John breathed out. He locked his hand in the dark, curly locks, trying to memorize everything this man was. This had been the most vivid dream he's had in a while, and he wanted to remember every last detail. John let his hand wander over the other's face, tracing lines and curves, and just memorizing Sherlock. This was beginning to be too much for John - seeing such a life-like version of Sherlock in his dreams, knowing he couldn't have that anymore. New tears fell from John's eyes, feeling more emotion than he was used to in a long time. Sherlock began to look panicked. Sherlock's hand came up to hold John's, which was still resting on the side of Sherlock's face. "John-"

"I'm so sorry," John choked out. Knowing this was a dream, he felt secure saying the things he couldn't before. He felt ease at being face to face with the man that he thought about constantly. "I couldn't save you. You were my best friend, and I couldn't save you." John used his other free arm to wrap around the back of Sherlock's neck. He pulled him down into a hug, John still lying on the bed with Sherlock's head now fit firmly into his right shoulder. John could feel Sherlock's nose graze the side of his neck, the feeling overtaking his senses. He wanted Sherlock closer. Needed him closer. John used his other arm to wrap around Sherlock, locking him in place. He held onto him like he was holding on for his life. "Please don't go," John whispered, barely audible.

"Okay," came the strained reply as Sherlock slowly pulled away from John's embrace. He shifted into bed next to the nearly lucid figure. John quickly pushed up against Sherlock, using both handsto grab at Sherlock's shirt, bringing them closer. John buried his face under Sherlock's chin, letting his breath tickle the bare collar of skin. John felt an arm drape over his side. He felt so right in this embrace. He wanted to be like this for the rest of his life. It took Sherlock falling to his death for John to realize that he wanted Sherlock this way. That thought in and of itself hurt John more than any other part of this dream. He wished he could have realized it sooner. Maybe things would have been different.

Even though John knew that this was all a dream, he felt for the first time in what seemed like ages, happy. Finally dreaming of Sherlock, instead of always seeing him in nightmares. This was too unreal and he didn't want to wake up. He wanted to live this dream every night. He dreaded morning, knowing that he was going to wake up cold and alone, like every morning. That thought made hisstomach sink and he unconsciously moved closer to Sherlock, if that was possible. It was as if Sherlock sensed his thoughts because the grip on him tightened. John didn't know whether to be sad or happy in this moment. Happy that it was happening, but sad because of what the morning would bring. In a way, this dream was probably one of the more terrible ones. Showing John what he could have, then tearing it away from him. John cringed, letting out a large breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I miss you," John exhaled. Not 'missed,' but 'miss.' Sherlock wasn't really there and he would never be again. John will always wake up and realize that Sherlock is still dead and won't come back. He'll always miss him.

For a long while there was no reply from the man beside him. John wasn't surprised. In his other dreams, Sherlock never replied. So he felt content to relax into the hold. Everything around him began to fade and John knew that his dream was coming to an end. But before nothingness took over him over, he heard a faint whisper from from the man surrounding him.

"I know."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so late!  
> It was originally supposed to just be a one shot but someone suggested I continue it so here it is. It was more fun to write than I'd thought it'd be haha.

John awoke, feeling more refreshed than he had in ages. In an instant, everything that happened came flooding back to his mind, and he quickly turned his head, searching for Sherlock. Instead, he found an empty bed. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he let his head fall into his hands and he sighed. It was all a dream. He didn't know why he let himself get his hopes up.

He took a few more minutes of sitting there, trying to remember everything he could about the dream. As much as it pains him to remember, he didn't want to forget. That dream was the closest he's gotten to Sherlock since the fall. Even if it caused him pain, he wanted to hold on to that feeling. But he knew he couldn't sit in bed all day. Once he stopped himself from thinking about it too much, he forced himself to get up and head to the bathroom to wash up.

After he was finished in the bathroom, he dressed himself and headed downstairs to grab himself a cuppa. He passed by the living room, not paying much attention, and strode into the kitchen. John reached into the cupboard, pulling out his favorite mug and turning on the kettle. He checked the fridge for milk, but upon looking in found that he was out. Mug in hand, he turned around to grab a tea bag from the pantry but stopped short. The feeling leaving his body, the mug slipped from his hand and shattered on the ground. Across from the kitchen was Sherlock, sitting in his old, dusty black chair, completely still.

"John," he said, barely above a whisper. His voice came out strained and delicate.

For a second, John thought he was hallucinating. Sherlock was sitting there in the flat, staring back at John with pleading eyes. Every emotion from last night, last month, and the last three years came flooding back to him. John felt speech and movement impossible.

Sherlock didn't move. He just sat there watching John, trying to expect his next move. John had never seen such a pained expression on his best friend's face before. He had dark bags under his eyes and he looked terribly worn out. This Sherlock looked just like the one from last night.

John finally forced himself to move, stepping past the glass from his mug and making his way into the living room. He saw Sherlock's dark coat and scarf hanging on the door in their usual spot. He wasn't sure how he missed it when he walked into the kitchen not long ago. John continued walking over to Sherlock, but stopped inches from his chair. Sherlock was there - he was real. This wasn't a dream.

_'This is real. He is real. This is really happening. He couldn't possibly be alive, and yet, here he is.'_

"John, I'm alive. I'm sorry for deceiving you," Sherlock said, rising from his chair. "But you must let me explain myself. There are many things I need to tell you."

Before Sherlock could get another word in, John hurled a fist in his direction only to have it collide with his face. Sherlock stumbled back, grasping the chair behind him for support, clutching his now throbbing face. Sherlock's lip was split, blood covering the affected area.

"You complete arse! You made believe you were dead for three years?! Why in the hell would you do that? Did you enjoy it?" John asked, his fists trembling at his side.

"John, no! It was just as hard for me as it was for you. There were so many times I had the urge to come out of hiding to see you. But I couldn't - not until Moran and the rest of Moriarity's gang were taken down. John, your safety was at risk. I  _had_  to stay hidden," Sherlock said, nearly raising his voice.

"So, is that why you're back now? Moriarity's gang are taken care of? Another case solved by the amazing Sherlock Holmes!" John said, the sarcasm clearly evident.

"John," he started again. "I am really, truly sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

John tried to hold himself back from lashing out at Sherlock at that. There were so many questions, so many things that John wanted to voice. "Never meant to hurt me?" John scoffed. "Do you have any idea what I've been through these past three years? Of course not! You only care about your damn self."

"I care about  _you_ ," Sherlock said, slightly defeated. "That's why I had to do what I did."

"Oh, really now?" John asked skeptically.

"Back at St. Bart's, I jumped because I didn't have a choice. Moriarity had a gunman on you and if I didn't jump, he would have shot you. Same with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I had to kill myself to complete his story, or else you would have died. It was part of his plan from the beginning," Sherlock said.

John went silent for a long time. If that was true then Sherlock did what he did to keep John safe. John had no idea. How could he? Sherlock hadn't told him a thing. "Why didn't you tell me?" He asked, a little more calmly.

"I needed you to believe I was dead. I couldn't risk anyone coming after you. You have to understand that I didn't have a choice, John," Sherlock pleaded again.

"Yes, yes. I understand. Fine," John said, annoyed. He really didn't want to forgive Sherlock, but it was so damn hard not to. Now that Sherlock was here in the flesh, all of his newly discovered feelings resurfaced. John loved Sherlock, and he was just glad that he could have him in his life again. Even if he'd never been angrier with him.

John audibly sighed. "It hurts, you know. Seeing you again," John began.

"John-"

"No, Sherlock, I need to get this out. You left me for three years.  _Three years._  No explanation as to why - nothing. I'm angry, and upset, and I don't exactly know what to make of it," John paused, sighing again. "But I could never hate you. Even though I know I should right now. I want to, but I can't."

"John... I'm sorry.

"Yes, I know. You've said that quite a bit now, haven't you?" John said, walking back to the kitchen to finish making his tea, seeing as his kettle alerted him that his water was boiled and ready. In the kitchen, he pulled out another mug and placed a tea bag inside. Before he could pour hot water into the mug, he stopped upon hearing Sherlock enter the kitchen and come to stand behind him.

"John," he nearly whispered. "I missed you every day."

"Stop," John said, not turning around. "I don't think I can stand to hear that from you right now."

Having Sherlock here after so long, saying that he missed John, was too much. Just last night John realized that he wanted Sherlock in a totally different way than just friendship. Now Sherlock was seemingly back from the dead and saying something intimate to John. Obviously, John knew Sherlock didn't want John the same way. But he wasn't about to lose Sherlock again after just getting him back, so naturally John knew he had to keep this revelation a secret. As much as John loved hearing Sherlock say that he missed him, it would be disastrous if John did something on impulse.

"But, I really did-"

"Please! Not now," John said, setting the kettle back down and turning to face Sherlock. "Look, I have to go to work," John said. It wasn't a lie, he'd just be early if he left now. The thought was tempting, considering he couldn't stand to be there any longer. "Will you... You know, will you still be here when I get back?" John asked a little nervously.

"Yes, don't worry," Sherlock replied somewhat sadly.

"Yes, well, you can't blame me for worrying, can you?"

Sherlock seemed to ignore John's rhetorical question. "Hurry back. We have much to talk about."

John stiffly nodded before retreating upstairs in a hurry to relieve himself of the situation.

John showered quickly and was out the door in no time, only giving Sherlock one last glance. He was terrified of coming home to an empty house, but he couldn't abandon his work. It had been hard enough to hold his job for the past three years with the way he was. They were kind enough to work with him when he was struggling so he couldn't abandon them now that Sherlock reappeared after such a long time. Though he wanted nothing more than to just be near the man he'd been missing. He still couldn't fully grasp that he was actually  _back._

* * *

This day seemed to drag on longer than any other. Yes, he was angry with Sherlock and needed a little space, but he also couldn't bear to spend another day away from him. Even if he was in a foul mood around Sherlock, at least he was around him. Everything was confusing and frustrating and he found himself over analyzing the situation.

John hadn't exuded this much emotion in a long time and those in his workplace started noticing the rapid change in his demeanor. Sarah had even approached him about his unusual behavior, but seemed happy that he was showing any emotion besides the dreadful depression he's been in for a year. John was unsure if he could release Sherlock's return to anyone so he expertly dodged the questions shot at him. But apparently John looked awfully anxious about something, and because of the slow day, he was allowed to leave early.

John was able to return home quicker than he anticipated, anxious to talk to Sherlock once again. Once he entered the flat he quickly made it to the living area, hanging his coat. But upon further inspection, he realized that Sherlock wasn't there like he was that morning.

"Sherlock?" He called into the empty space. There was no response. "Sherlock?" He asked again, walking to Sherlock's room and knocking on the door. Again, no answer. Upon looking inside, he noticed the room was also empty.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, running back into the living room. That's when John began to panic. What if he left John again? What if he was gone for good this time? What if John had imagined the entire encounter last night and this morning?

An immense pressure crashed over him and he felt his heart almost shatter. His entire body filled with dread and fear. What was he going to do if he never saw Sherlock again? The first time he lost Sherlock it was completely out of his control. This time he could have prevented it. He could have stayed home instead of leaving for work. His body loosing feeling, John dropped to his knees. He covered his face with his hand, wanting to break down, but refusing to cry anymore. All he could manage were deep breaths.

Tuning the world out, John didn't notice the door to the flat opening and closing or the footsteps leading up the stars to the living area. It was only when a voice called out to him that he noticed someone else was there with him.

"John?" A bag dropped to the floor. "John! What's the matter?" The figure came to crouch beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. John looked up, seeing a face he never thought he'd see again.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking panicked. "Where were you?"

"I saw that you were out of milk so I went to get some," Sherlock said, awkwardly. "I didn't think you'd be back this soon."

John sighed softly, calming down. Sherlock didn't leave him - he was here. "Never thought I'd see the day where you willing done the shopping," he said, letting Sherlock help him stand up. "Don't do that again. Okay?" John asked, still a little shaken up.

John must have looked pitiful to Sherlock - nearly having a panic attack from his going to a store.  _"God, what have I become?"_ John thought, sighing.

Sherlock nodded before going back to the bag forgotten on the floor, picking it up, and setting it on the table. "Listen, John," Sherlock began. "This might be a terrible thing to ask considering it wasn't long ago that you found out I'm alive. But I was wondering if I could possibly move back in?"

John gave him a hopeful look, thankful that Sherlock still wanted to be near him. "Uh yeah, sure," John said nonchalantly. "Your bedroom is still the same as before. It hasn't been touched."

Sherlock gave John a small smile and John's heart felt tight in his chest. He spent three years aching for the man, and now that he was in the same room as him, he felt he almost couldn't hold back. Sherlock never really smiles - and when he does it's always sarcastic. Never genuine. But this smile, the one he was showing John after so so long, was real. John realized how much he missed this man and everything he was. But he felt compelled to hold back, or else he lose his best friend again.

"I'm going to take a shower. I haven't had one in a while," Sherlock said, hanging his coat on the door and stepping into the hallway. "I'll be done soon," he said, giving John one last look and heading towards the bathroom.

Sherlock was doing the shopping, bathing, and smiling? What happened in those three years that he was away? Whatever it was, it certainly affected Sherlock in a completely opposite way than John.

John sighed, sitting down in his chair. For the past three years he never had a day that was this eventful. John was mentally exhausted. Sherlock still seemed the same for the most part, though he came across as more sensitive to John's emotions - which was strange for Sherlock. Though John didn't think much of it. He was just grateful to have Sherlock in his life again.

John was startled from his thoughts upon hearing a familiar ring tone, signaling a text. It was Sherlock's phone and it was coming from his coat. John rose from his seat and strode over to Sherlock's coat. This was a huge invasion of privacy, but John was curious. It was Sherlock's own damn fault, disappearing and not telling him how. So John was curious. What if it was about his return or information concerning it?

Digging through the coat pocket, John retrieved the small black phone. He opened it to reveal a text message from Lestrade. Though, it wasn't very descriptive. All that was in the text was, "The situation turned out different from expected." That didn't make any sense to John, so he shoved it to the back of his mind.

That was when he should have put the phone away and gone about his own business. But no, John was still curious. John decided to look through his texts, but found only texts to and from Lestrade, and a string of texts from him. So Lestrade knew that Sherlock was alive and that arse didn't think to tell John. He also found the one text he received while at Sherlock's grave that said only two words, 'I know.' John continued to look through the phone. His interest was piqued upon finding Sherlock's draft box full of messages. Curious, he opened it and found that every one of them were addressed to John.

It's been a month since I last saw you - SH

The weather here is dreadful - SH

Lestrade is annoying - SH

He says I can't see you yet - SH

I'll come home soon and clean the dust - SH

The tea here is terrible - SH

How's the snow there? - SH

I hope you don't hate me - SH

Pretending to be dead is so boring - SH

I wish I could be there right now - SH

I hope to come back soon - SH

Of course I want you, John - SH

Don't apologize - SH

I miss you - SH

I'm coming home soon - SH

Hold on a little longer - SH

John's eyes widened at the realization. Sherlock missed John just as much as John missed Sherlock. All these texts he never sent showed so much of Sherlock's side that he refused to show anyone. But he thought of John for the whole three years, texting him back, but never sending them. He couldn't.

"John?" Sherlock said, entering the living through the kitchen. Just getting out of the shower, he had nothing but a towel on.

John turned around, Sherlock's open phone in his hand. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the object. "Why didn't you send any of them?" John asked, his voice wavering slightly.

Sherlock looked surprised for a second before responding. "I couldn't," Sherlock answered after a long pause. "You weren't supposed to know I was alive."

"Is this how you really feel?" John questioned.

"Of course," Sherlock responded. "Didn't I tell you, already? I missed you every day."

"Yeah," John replied absent-mindedly, handing the phone back to Sherlock. He felt like he was just hit by a wave of emotion. John was incredibly happy and angry at the same time. Happy that Sherlock missed him, angry that Sherlock never said a thing.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, taking in John's far-away expression.

"Nothing," John said, turning his back to Sherlock and entering the kitchen. "I'm just glad you're back."

Sherlock only smiled.

* * *

Both men spent the remainder of the day with each other. John wouldn't let Sherlock out of his sight again - not after what happened the first time.

Sherlock updated his blog while John watched telly. John was happy to know that Sherlock was coming out to the public as alive again, though not so flamboyantly. He didn't want to alert any media. This meant that John could go outside with him again, solve crimes with him again, and just be around him.

After a while, Sherlock joined John in front of the telly. Sherlock would complain about everything being 'crap' and having 'no merit,' but John was just content to be there with him. They would sit there and chat until it had become night - neither knowing that they'd been talking for so long.

John rose from his chair after Sherlock had noted the time, realizing it was rather late. "I better get some sleep," he said, heading towards the door frame. "You should get some rest, too."

Sherlock nodded, getting up from his chair also. He walked over and stood in front of John for a second. "Alright," he said. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

John wanted to cry and kiss him at the same time. Sherlock could still read John like an open book, that's no surprise. He obviously knew that John was insecure about leaving him alone again. John wondered if he also knew his feelings for him. From the way that Sherlock stood there, unmoving, John thought it was a possibility that Sherlock was waiting for John to make a move.

John let out a soft chuckle, mentally slapping himself. There was no way - not Sherlock. Sherlock never wanted romance with anyone. John was content with his friendship. Though it still hurt.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What's funny?" He looked honestly curious, like he had no clue as to why John was laughing. Sherlock Holmes - not having a clue? That was laughable. There was no way that he knew, John concluded.

John let out another soft laugh, smiling at the man. "Nothing," he said, patting the man on the shoulder. "Sleep well, Sherlock," John said, scaling the stairs to his room. He looked back one last time to see Sherlock standing exactly where he was, looking up at John with that same confused expression.

Once he reached his bedroom, he shut the door and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He'd been so close to Sherlock and he wasn't able to do a thing. He couldn't make a move - Sherlock seemed like he didn't want John to. Sherlock wasn't interested in those kinds of trivial things.

Sighing, John quickly changed and got into his bed, willing himself to fall asleep.

* * *

A name ripped from John's throat as he sat up, panting. He realized it was Sherlock's. It must have been, considering the dream John had. In this particular dream, Sherlock had come back to John - back from the dead. But immediately after John saw him, he was caught and killed by Moriarity right in front of John's eyes. John felt a pain stab through him. He'd never had this dream before and it scared him. He knew Moriarity was dead, but what if someone came after Sherlock again?

Nearly immediately after John's scream, the door to his room was hastily opened. There stood Sherlock, looking at John with worried eyes. Sherlock quickly made it to the side of John's bed, placing one hand on his shoulder.

"John? Is everything alright?"

"Y-yeah," he said, shaking his head. "Sherlock? What are you doing in my room?" John questioned, beginning to compose himself.

"I heard you scream so I came to see if you were alright," he said, his face giving away to no compromising emotions.

John sighed. He must look pathetic to Sherlock. "I'm fine. You should go back to sleep."

When John looked up at Sherlock, he saw that the man was wearing a look of sadness and regret. Sherlock stood firmly - he wasn't going to move, even if John asked it of him. Something in Sherlock must have changed over the course of those three years. He was so different compared to the uncaring, logical person he was before. John didn't know if it was good or bad - he was just happy with Sherlock being here.

John paused a moment before responding to Sherlock's look. "Would you like to sleep here tonight?"

Sherlock gave John a calculating look. It was the same expression he used when trying to solve a case, but unable to unravel the mystery. It was if Sherlock thought John had some sort of unknown motive, but Sherlock couldn't quite figure it out. After a couple moments, Sherlock showed the faintest hint of a smile, before crossing to the other side of the bed and lying flat over the covers.

John lied back down, pulling the covers over and facing the wall opposite Sherlock.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," he said, unsure of what else to say.

"Goodnight, John."

It was quiet for a long time and John figured that Sherlock must have fallen asleep. With his back to Sherlock, John couldn't tell, but he assumed. He felt sleep creeping up on him as well, as he let his eyes fall shut. He was frightened to sleep - he didn't want nightmares anymore. At least not ones of Sherlock. Involuntarily he curled in on himself and gripped the covers a little tighter. He was scared but he wouldn't admit it.

A soothing hand reached out to rest on John's back, palm flat. "John?" John could feel warm breath on the back of his ear, Sherlock's voice just below a whisper. John involuntarily shivered. "Are you sleeping?" Sherlock's voice came out worried.

"No," he replied after a few seconds.

Sherlock paused a second, before asking another question. "What was your dream about when I first walked in?

That surprised John. He hadn't anticipated Sherlock to ask something like that. "You dying," He said, his back still to Sherlock. He tried to will his voice to come out smooth, but it came out cracked instead. He didn't want to see the look Sherlock would give him when he said that.

The hand on John's back grabbed the fabric of his shirt, as if trying to grip something that was out of his reach. "I'm sorry," he said, letting his forehead rest on John's neck. The dark curls tickled John's cheeks and John willed himself not to move.

"I know," John whispered back.

In that instant, he never felt closer to Sherlock. Even if their bodies weren't touching, the words they exchanged seemed so intimate to John. He never wanted to leave this moment. The hand on his back slid up his body and rested on his shoulder. Before John knew what he was doing, he used his free hand to reach over and give Sherlock's a gentle squeeze.

Not really expecting more to come of the conversation, John let his eyes fall shut, attempting to finally get some sleep. Though with Sherlock being this close, it was nearly impossible. A few moments after John closed his eyes, they were quickly opened again, John feeling smooth lips on the back of his neck. They trailed down and began to line his shoulder, the hand that was previously there now gripping John's hips.

"S-sherlock?" John asked, turning his head to get a better view of the man. Sherlock did nothing to acknowledge that he heard John, still continuing his actions. John had to forcibly turn on his back for Sherlock to pull away and look down at John.

Sherlock's face was contorted into a look of sadness and empathy. The way he looked at John just screamed apologies.

' _Oh, that's it,'_ John thought. ' _This must be Sherlock's way of apologizing.'_

John smiled sadly, reaching up to touch the side of Sherlock's face - an action he did just the night prior. "You don't have to keep apologizing. I forgive you, Sherlock."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice coming out weak, tears just beyond his eyes. He lowered himself down, his body on half of John's, as he gripped John's shirt. John felt a small wetness hit his neck where Sherlock's face was buried. "John," he said once again, his voice strained.

"I know," John answered, placing one hand on Sherlock's shoulder in reassurance, as he fell asleep, a sad smile gracing his features.


End file.
